


A supernatural adventure.

by punkypeggy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, POV First Person, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkypeggy/pseuds/punkypeggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how I died, and how I rose from the dead. -SH</p>
            </blockquote>





	A supernatural adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the opening act for a SuperLock crossover RP.

I wasn’t dead when I hit the ground. Instead, I died a few seconds before that, when I was still on the air, falling. A heart attack, as simple as that. I died of fear. Fear from dying. It was pathetic, but (unlike my death) it was not my choice. I didn’t feel my skull cracking against the pavement, I didn’t hear my friend trying to reach me after almost being ran over by a bike.

I felt nothing.   
  
Falling was not like flying and, against all odds, the destination was not final. Once again, Moriarty was wrong. And so was I. When I opened my eyes, my first thought was “I am in London”. A thick, yellowish fog didn’t allow me to see the sun, it only let me know intuitively it was there (was it there?). But something was off. I _knew_ I was dead. Then… why was I alive?  
  
I sat up. The place I was in resembled a dead forest. It seemed empty, but I knew it was not. How, you ask? I am not able to say. All I knew was that I was alive, and that I was afraid and that I had a tangible reason to be afraid. Despite whatever was lurking in the shadows, my whole belief system had been crashed against the floor (like my skull) and broken into a million pieces. I would have to relearn everything. In the middle of nowhere, the corners of my lips turned upwards. A challenge.  
  
The first step was to figure where I was. Considering the fact that I was alive (in a way) and I was evidently being hunted, my first thought was Hell. But this place didn’t feel like Hell. This place was rough and dry and dead but it didn’t make sense. It evidently wasn’t Heaven either. I had killed myself, therefore, I should belong to Hell, according to every religion. Except… Of course. I killed myself, but I had sacrificed myself to save others. I didn’t fit in Hell, nor in Heaven. If my knowledge wasn’t entirely wrong, I was in Purgatory.  
  
I learnt that the things that were trying to hunt me down were hunted by others. I learnt that they could be killed. Severing their heads, staking their hearts. Everything was terribly symbolic, yet it worked. I learnt how to kill them, in theory, and later on, in practise. It was a matter of survival. Survival in death.  
  
I partnered with several beasts during my time in Purgatory. Alliances never lasted. I would say one could be killed in one’s sleep, but I never slept. Or ate. I didn’t really mind. I took it as constant training. My knowledge of baritsu, boxing and fencing came in really handy. I learnt how to make the strangest weapons, sharp and light. Some were made of bones. I would say “human bones”, but nothing was really human in there. Not anymore.  
  
I /needed/ to come back. I was sure there was a way. And then I met him. Like me, he looked like he didn’t belong there, but somehow he deserved it. We fought side by side for what seemed an eternity. He was prone to silence, and so was I. We usually let each other alone with our musings, and we only shared the ocassional strategy. One day, we talked about bees. That was the only time I saw him smile. That was probably the only time he saw me smile as well. Discussing bees in Purgatory, what were the odds? He told me there was a way out, and he would show it to me. “Why are you here?”, he asked once. “I killed myself to save my friends. You?” “Penance”, he replied, and he didn’t ask any further. Neither did I.

  
***

  
There was the door. Not an actual door, but a portal. “You will have to find your body”, he said. I hoped that, against my will, Mycroft would have buried me instead of burnt me and scattered my ashes on Anderson’s desk. “I cannot go with you”, he said. I understood his time hadn’t come yet and nodded. I was tanned and definitely more muscular. I wondered if that would reflect on my body, once I found it.   
  
"Until the next time, old friend. I shall pray to my Father for us to meet again."  
  
As I crossed the portal, I pondered about the irony of my final words to Moriarty.   
  
"On the side of the angels."

 

***

 

Once out of the portal, I found myself back in the real world. Where, exactly? The very same place where I lost my life. I almost expected to find my body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. But my body had been removed and my blood had been cleaned and there was nothing left of me on that street. I wondered if the pavement would pass a Luminol test, or if it would glow with my figure under UV light. I wondered how much time had passed, as I suspected “time” and “space” were nothing but concepts at that God-forsaken place. I felt numb. I felt confused. I felt angry for being confused, for my mind not being entirely clear, not like before. I felt sad because nobody knew I was there, standing on top of where my body had been, the strangers walking the street right across me. I felt. I felt too much, and it was terribly alien.  
  
"Find your body. Find a Reaper. Find the right Reaper. They will come to you, as you do not belong." Now that feeling wasn’t alien. I never belonged. I could deal with that. It took me some time to learn how to move this _thing_ I now was. It took me more time not to appear back on the same spot. My place of death was an anchor. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I did learn. I found out that places linked to me called me like a moth to the flame. The pavement before Barts. Baker Street. The Morgue. Baker Street. The pavement before Barts. Wales. Wales? _Wales_. I found myself at St Woolas Cemetery in Newport. That bastard of Mycroft had buried me there beside my father. We were never close, how ironic of him. It made me angry, and the lights flickered. On my tombstone, white peonies. Somehow I knew they were Mrs Hudson’s. I couldn’t feel John’s presence. It was probably too much for the poor sod.  
  
It took me a few visits to Wales for the _right Reaper_ to appear. A few visits and a few promises I didn’t expect to fulfill. Reapers were easy to manipulate. I might have been dead, but I was still the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, so it was no real challenge. I woke up in my body, now restored. Six feet undeground, in a wooden box. How unpleasant.   
  
I managed my way out and up and rose, an unlikely Lazarus with bloody knuckles and dirty hair awaken from his slumber. A slumber later on I knew lasted one year and a half. It took me another six months to convince John that I was, in fact, me. Yes, of course, I faked my death to save him. Obviously, I was hidden in France, and Italy, and where not. Mycroft never asked, which made me be suspicious of how much he really knew. Lestrade welcomed my return and Molly… Molly never looked at me in the eye again.  
  
Back at Baker Street and on full force, I continued my life as if all of this had been nothing more than a bad dream.

 


End file.
